


Fragile

by slashhack



Series: Fragile [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Implied Underage, M/M, basically a billion warnings for every trigger, but mostly the after-effects of said violence, implied rape, pretty brutal violence, pretty dark, sterek, there is some pretty major miscommunication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashhack/pseuds/slashhack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski is in the hospital: unconscious, battered, dying.<br/>Derek Hale was caught, quite literally, red-handed. </p><p>What the hell happened?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Somewhat Damaged

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experiment for me- I ususally write the absolute fluffiest bullshit. When I write dark stuff, it tends to be REALLY dark. I'm avoiding a few tags, because SPOILERS, yo. Please be forewarned: there is a lot of trigger-y stuff implied and discussed, though there's not any graphic action (yet.)
> 
> Also this chapter is written in a pretty stylized manner. The rest should be more narrative and less disjointed.

_Beep._

Reaching desperately for his phone, tauntingly close but just beyond his fingertips. His hand closing around air, again. Crying out as he shifts closer, just an inch closer...

_Beep._

Crying, because it was impossibly difficult to move those few inches, but he has his phone. Speed dial. Ring ring. Voicemail.

_Beep._

"Dad... Dad, please, pick up, Dad... Dad, I'm sorry. I love you, Dad, I'm so sorry, please... I love you."

_Beep._

Too tired to try again; can't see the numbers to dial, anyway. Dying. Someone is coming. Coming back? Oh god, please not coming back...

_Beep._

"Stiles!? Stiles, shit, no, oh god, no.” _What have I done? Shit, be okay, you’re gonna be okay..._

**** 

Derek Hale stumbles up the highway, carrying a limp and bloody body, too torn to identify, too still, too bent, too much blood. A passing driver calls 911 but doesn’t stop, too terrified. A patrol car finds them, an ambulance; too many people- all unfamiliar, these strangers. Derek snarls and fights. He will not listen to reason, he will not listen to anything, won’t give them the body in his arms. The moment they have the opportunity- the moment he loosens his grip- they move, subdue him, take the motionless boy(?) away, wrestle Derek into cuffs and into the back of a car. No one has recognized him, not yet, his face streaked with blood and twisted, snarling. No one recognizes the body, either.

It is loaded into the back bay of the ambulance. An EMT writes “John Doe” on the paperwork, checks his watch to fill in the blank: “Time of Death.” 

The body gasps, chokes, a small cough. The EMT is startled, a hysterical moment of fear, then he starts shouting, everyone moving, the situation suddenly and unexpectedly urgent. There is now a _patient_ where there had previously been a _corpse_. The distinction is important.

****

John Stilinski arrives as the patrol car moves away, just after the ambulance has pulled screeching onto the main road. The situation is under control: the crazed man on his way to the station, unidentified teenage victim headed to the hospital. Such terrible things happen, could happen any time. John sighs, thinks about his son. His cellphone is on his nightstand, forgotten in a rush this morning. It’s okay. 

He will make sure to tell his son that he loves him, tonight, later, at home. 

****

Melissa McCall looks in at the mangled teenager. They have cleaned him up, as well as possible. They went over his body for evidence, for clues; bagged them, tagged them, washed them away. Stitched up the splits and reset the bones. It took hours. It was probably wasted effort.

It isn’t Scott. This is as much as she can tell: the boy’s face is swollen and discolored, cut up, and covered in tubes. Such a terrible thing, she thinks. She hopes they find his family soon. Maybe- not too soon. It will probably be less painful in the long run to avoid this false hope, to simply take the silent elevator down to the morgue. 

**** 

The boy remains unconscious. This is probably for the best. 

****

No one identifies the silent, motionless man in Cell Three. They have washed most of the blood away, after taking pictures, samples. He will be held indefinitely, until someone starts talking, or he is accused of a crime, or absolved. He does not object. 

No one misses Derek Hale.

****

Scott assumes Stiles is at home, busy. John figures, since he hasn’t come home, and hasn’t answered his phone, that he is with Scott. (He will be in trouble for not checking in.) It takes nearly twelve hours before anyone realizes he is actually missing, and two more before it occurs to anyone to check the hospital. John hasn't checked his voicemail. He does, now. His heart stops.

****

Melissa is distraught at not having recognized him. John does not blame her. He doesn’t recognize him, either.

Stiles probably wouldn’t even know himself, if he could see this tragic broken thing. (He can’t.) 

He doesn’t wake up.

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._


	2. The Wretched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles arrives at the hospital.
> 
> Derek arrives at the Police Station.
> 
> No one is saying a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me my flaws, I am neither a doctor nor a cop.

_“Code Blue, ER, Code Blue, ER, we need a Trauma Team, stat! We’ve got a scoop’n’run en route, ETA six minutes!”_

 

_  
_

Officer Davis glanced at the bloody man in the rearview mirror. “You got a name? Or even better, what about that kid you were dragging around? No? It’ll make this a lot easier, man. Not that you seem the type to do things the easy way, judging by the fight you put up out there. Have it your way, we’ll get you straightened out.”  
Derek sat in the back of the patrol car, silent and unresponsive, listening for as long as he could to the fading wail of the ambulance’s siren.

 

 

_“Patient is presenting with massive blunt force trauma on head and torso, multiple stab wounds, severe lacerations on arms and face. Prognosis is… it’s not looking good.”_

 

 

“Come on, let’s get you in the station. That’s a lot of blood, son, how much of it is yours? We’re gonna clean you up a bit and see if we don’t need to take you to the emergency room, too, now you’ve calmed down.” The officer grabbed a spare jumpsuit and led him to a small shower, uncuffed him, and waited while he undressed and stood listlessly under the spray.  
It seemed that _none_ of the blood was his.

 

 

_“Order an emergency X-ray and get a pulmonary specialist in here! Patient is intubated but we’re experiencing respiratory failure.”_

 

_  
_

Officer Davis pursed his lips, and sighed. “Now look, unless you want to tell us what exactly happened out there, and why we found a bloody knife in your jacket pocket, we’re going to have to hold you. You’re not doing yourself any favors with this silent routine.” Derek just stared at the floor and thought about ripping the cop’s face off with his claws. He clenched his hands.

 

 

_“We’ve got a traumatic tension pneumothorax, this kid’s not breathing! Needle decompression performed en route, let’s get a chest tube in now, now!”_

 

_  
_

“Looks like he’s gonna be here a while, might as well book him in. Between the condition of that kid and the serial killer act this guy has going, I’ll be damn surprised if he’s not charged.” The officer glanced over at the quiet man, who seemed almost to be in shock. He appeared to be physically well, but there was definitely something off about his mental state. Then again, you could say that about _most_ arrestees, especially the kind found with half-dead stabbing victims and knives in their pockets.

 

 

_“Get an Asherman on that puncture, Christ, where is my specialist?”_

 

_  
_

“This damn camera is acting up again, Jeff,” the officer called back to a man bent over a desk. “I’m getting this weird lensflare.”  
“Well, just skip it for now and get his prints. We’ll worry about it when we know what’s up, okay?”  
“Alright, man, you ready to talk, yet? Do you at least have a name?” Davis reached for Derek’s hand, to take prints, and coughed out a surprised cry when the hand suddenly grasped his arm in an iron grip, nails drawing blood. “Son of a bitch, Jeff! Jeff help, this crazy asshole is attacking me!” Together the officers managed to subdue Derek and shove him into the high-security cell.

 

 

_“He’s going into the Triad, shit, get him in the OR, NOW, we need to get him open and stop the hemorrhaging! Looks like he might have nicked the spleen.”_

 

_  
_

Officer Davis nodded at Sheriff Stilinski as he swept into the station. “They have the kid in surgery. Can’t tell yet if he’s going to make it, but from what I saw it doesn’t look good.”  
The Sheriff sighed and shook his head. “What’s going on with this town? A couple years ago the worst we ever got was vandalism, occasional domestic. Now it feels like we’re working toward murder capital of the West Coast… Are you good here? I’m scheduled to be halfway across town right now. Left my damn cellphone at home this morning- you have no idea how dependent you are on the things until you don’t have one.”  
“Man, don’t I know it. Jeff and I can hold the fort here, we’ve got that guy in cooldown and other than that it’s been a quiet night.  
“Thanks, Davis.”

 

 

_“Can someone set his arm, please, it’s in the way.”_

 

_  
_

Derek stared at his fingers, extending and retracting his claws, wondering what it would feel like to just dig them down his arm and bleed out all over the floor. Wondered if the injury would heal immediately, or if it would linger because it was inflicted by an Alpha, or if he would lose too much blood and die before the gash could close itself.

 

 

_“No apparent spinal injuries, well, thank god for small mercies. It looks like the attacker was aiming for the heart, hit a lung instead. What the hell is wrong with people?”_

 

_  
_

The officer was on the phone with the hospital, and even through the rush of white noise in his head Derek could hear his half of the conversation. He sounded sympathetic, he blew a low whistle, he made an unconscious clicking noise. The boy in the hospital was not doing well.

 

 

_“Most of the damage is centered on the face and upper torso. We still need to do a full-body sweep before we clear him into ICU.”_

 

_  
_

“I’m very sorry to hear that. But he’s holding in there? Can’t say I’m not impressed, must be one hell of a tough kid.” Davis winced, thinking of his grown daughter, of the Sheriff’s precocious son. “Have we got an ID yet? Well, someone will turn up looking for him soon, I’m sure. If we manage to get anything out of our guy, we’ll let you know ASAP and we’ll notify the family.”

 

 

_“Patient appears unhar- oh. Damn it, DAMN it. It looks like- Shit, poor kid. Get a Kit, they’re gonna want this DNA.”_

 

_  
_

“That- Really? That’s… god, that’s genuinely terrible.” Davis closed his eyes. He hated cases like this more than anything, other than maybe child abuse. “I hate to say it, but I’d put money on this weird bastard we have in custody being the match. What? Just, weird, you know? Hasn’t said a word since we brought him in. I guess that’s why, doesn’t want to risk it without an attorney? Christ. That just makes me sick. At least we have the asshole in custody already. We’ll send samples out to the lab ASAP.” Davis hung up and pressed his thumb against the curve of his eye socket. Today was just not a great day.

 

 

_“We need to file with the Police Department, can you run a full report?”_

 

_  
_

Davis stood outside the bars and scowled at the man sitting motionless on the edge of his cot. “Just got off the phone with the hospital.” The man jerked aware, looked up at him with wide, started eyes.  
“Is he okay?” His first words in hours.  
“Haha, ‘okay.’ Of course he’s not fucking ‘okay,’ you _saw_ him, didn’t you? Kid looked like he’d been run over with a lawnmower. _Someone_ did that to him. And I got some other pretty disturbing news, too.” Davis glared at the man, who had nervously resumed his staring contest with the floor.

 

 

_“You think it was the guy they found him with?”_

 

_  
_

Davis cleared his throat, aimed all of his disgust at the animal in the cell before him.  
“You are under arrest for assault and attempted murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as they have been explained to you? Yes? Nod, or something, damn you.”

 

 

_“Did you see the kid they brought in earlier? It took them six hours to put everything back where it belonged. If I’d been on team I sure wouldn’t have bothered; he’s not gonna make the night.”_

 

_  
_

Attempted, he said _attempted_.

 

That meant Stiles was still alive.

 

 

 

(for now)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is confused, the italics are the ER staff in reaction to Stile's arrival at the hospital. Regular text is Derek's Adventures at the Police Station. They are happening pretty much concurrently.


	3. Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some context. Some confusion. What are we even talking about, here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're looking for the new chapter, it is Chapter 2: The Wretched. It fits better in this order, sorry.
> 
> Please be aware that the timeline is not exactly linear, although it should be pretty clear what is BEFORE and what is AFTER.

Then:

"Dude," Scott said, muffled, from the pathetic heap he had thrown himself into on Stiles' bed, "what is UP with you and Derek, anyway?"

Stiles sighed and ran an impatient hand down his face. "Seriously, man, you are making such a big deal out of this. Nothing is 'up' with us. I barely even know the guy." Scott raised the dramatic arm he had thrown across his face, and eyed his best friend skeptically.

"You spend a lot of time with him," he muttered. "It's just weird."

"Oh my _god_ , Scott, really? In case you haven't noticed, there's been kind of a _lot_ of pretty weird shit happening these past few months. Somehow it seems to me that talking to the one guy who might _sort of_ have some idea about what's going on is _not that strange_ ."

Scott pouted and sat up. "I know, Stiles, I just... he doesn't like me. He doesn't really seem to like _anyone_ , but he's different around you and I think there must be a reason."

"You haven't exactly given him a ton of reasons to like you, Scott. No, don't make that face at me, I know why- look, we've been through this. I am done discussing the Questionable but Desperate Actions of Scott McCall." Stiles swiveled his chair back and forth, restless. "Besides, he probably just treats me different because, hello, I don't know if you have noticed this lately, but I'm pretty much the only human in the group. The only _normal_ human. Sans superpowers. No mojo. The lame wildebeest.”

Scott blinked up at him, silent for a moment. “No one thinks you’re lame, Stiles. I mean, I guess they used to, but you’re pretty cool now, right?”

“Really, _that’s_ what you got out of- nevermind. Look, I’m a liability, like, I’m the weakest link. You with me? Derek’s little pack isn’t exactly the most stable group in the world, and I’m like some weird wildcard. He’s trying to figure out if what I can contribute is worth the risk of keeping me around. Then again, since the risk is mostly on me, I need to know how involved _I_ really want to be in this, this whole… werewolf _thing_.”

“Man, I didn’t even get any choice about this ‘werewolf thing,’” Scott said, sulking. “Still. Be careful, okay? I know we’re all on the same side, and all, but I just don’t think I’ll ever really trust him, you know?”

“Somehow I think that feeling may be mutual, Scotty. Look, man, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I really need to finish this paper and for _some_ reason I just haven’t had much time, lately.” 

Scott nodded, hefted his backpack, and trudged out with a mumbled goodbye. Stiles spun his chair back toward his desk, frowning at the seriously barren document window. _Damn_ his desperate need for scholarships… The front door slammed a little harder than strictly necessary. Aaand now Scott was mad at him. Great.

“You’re not a liability.”

“OH my GOD. Are you trying to kill me, I swear to GOD. If I die at the ripe old age of _NOT EVEN TWENTY_ I swear to god, Derek, the world will know it was YOUR FAULT.” Stiles spun his chair again, looking for the source of the voice and trying (and failing) to calm his heartbeat. The room was empty.

“You can come out now, you unholy creep. Or in, I guess. I know you know he’s gone.” Stiles didn’t even look up as his window slid the rest of the way up in its frame and Derek Hale stepped through.

“Seriously, Derek, one of these days he is going to actually realize he has crazy wolf senses and he’s gonna notice you lurking out there, and I am telling you , that is not going to make him like you any more. Or trust you more. Or at all, you know, and for that matter I’m not sure _I_ even-"

“Stiles.”

“I don’t like keeping secrets, Derek. Falsehood is not my forte, you get me? Didn’t exactly roll a twenty on mendacity. I’m like some sort of beacon of truth, rising up to-“

“Stiles.” Stiles paused his nervous chatter, resisted the urge to start up again. The silence fell heavy over the room for an awkward moment. Stiles did not like silence. 

“So-“

“Stiles. Shut. Up.”

“Rude.”

Derek sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with his nails (claws?) and definitely not looking at Stiles. “You’re not. A liability.”

“See, you say that _now_ …” Derek glared. Nothing new there.

“That’s _not_ what this is about. You… I. It’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Stiles knew he was whining, but he couldn't help it.

“It IS. I’ve been on the other side. I don’t want…” Don’t want a repeat of the last time? Well, it’s not like he has a family _left_ for Stiles to destroy. Except, yeah, he kind of does. And Stiles has the power to rip it apart, even inadvertently.

 _Sigh._ “I get it. I’m not like, super happy with it, but I really do get it. And yeah, this isn’t pack business, not yet. Doesn’t mean I like it. And you can’t tell me it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m the weakest.”

“You’re not weak.” _You’re strong, and you make us strong._ “But this is not about the pack, Stiles. This is between you and me.”

“Well then why does it matter what-“

“Because you can’t keep a secret? Because it’s _wrong_? We’ve been over this. It’s not that long.”

“It’s forever.”

“It’s not. And if you can’t wait, then you’ll know it wasn’t what you really wanted in the first place.”

“Well, aren’t you Mr. Rational Argument tonight. You sound like a fortune cookie, seriously, every time you put more than six words together. Is that why you usually communicate through glares and growls? Oh, look, like you’re doing RIGHT NOW?” 

“Be angry. I’m not going to change my mind.” Derek stood, adjusted his jacket, glanced out the window. Stiles heaved a sigh, rubbed his eyes. He knew full well that once Derek had decided on something it was nearly impossible to persuade him otherwise, and in this case, Derek was actually right. It didn’t mean Stiles had to be happy about it.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just…” He stalled out. There really wasn’t anything else to say.

It didn’t matter, anyway, the room behind him was empty.

****

Now:

“Sheriff Stilinski?” The doctor held out his hand, dropped it again when the haggard man in front of him simply looked at it, made no move to take it. “I’m Dr. Kelley. We… I need to speak with you about your son’s… situation. I think it’s best if we take this to my office.” The doctor seemed agitated, hesitant. He clearly didn’t want to have this conversation.

Neither did John.

“Well, Sheriff. You. Uh. You probably want to sit down…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: STILINSKI FEELS. The Sheriff finds out some things he wishes he didn't have to know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor wants to see John in his office. (He does not want to see John. He does not want to say these words.)
> 
> John learns some things that he wishes he didn't have to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. Sorry, Stiles.

Now:

 

John Stilinski did not hate hospitals. In fact, he was extremely grateful for them: a hospital was a battlefield for a war he couldn’t even begin to fight. He was grateful that there were people willing and able to try put a person back together, or take them apart, burn out the diseases and fight the invisible demons. 

 

He did not hate hospitals. He just hated being stuck in one, helplessly on the sidelines, while a battle was being fought wholly out of his control, even though the result could reshape his world.

 

Stiles. For god’s sake, the damn kid was all he had left, after the miserable defeat of losing Alexa- their Waterloo, their Thermopylae, their Alamo, and the losing side every time. Now he was here again, alone, in a sterile waiting room. 

 

Waiting. He hated waiting.

 

And yet, the moment the doctor appeared in the doorway, he wished he could have waited a little longer. The uncertainty was tearing, painful, devastating- but the look on his face promised that knowing was going to be even worse.

 

“Sheriff Stilinski? I’m Dr. Kelley. We… I need to speak with you about your son’s… situation. I think it’s best if we take this to my office.” He is quiet, gentle in that way that tells John he really, REALLY doesn’t want to hear what he has to say- well, that’s not true, not at all. He wants to hear, _needs_ to hear. What he truly wishes is that whatever it is he needs to find out about had never happened at all. What he needs is for his son to be _ok_.

 

He stands silently, just inside the door; looking determinedly at the wall behind the desk, tracing sightlessly over the certificates and diplomas littering the space. “Well, Sheriff. You. Uh. You probably want to sit down…” John sighs, complies, still not looking directly at the doctor. Even from the sidelines of his vision he can see the pity and genuine sorrow on his face. This man is about to tell him his son is dying. Is already dead. He does not want to hear those words; this is a hundred, a thousand times worse than when he has to say them to someone else. He will not be able to do that anymore- not anymore, he thought once before, after Alexa. But life had gone on and the world had not stopped and he had found it in him to call parents, husbands, daughters, and tell them that someone they loved was not coming home, ever again. He knew how it hurt them, so he was gentle and caring, and it had never been enough, had it? Not when the world was falling down.

 

He would not be able to do it, not anymore. This was too much.

 

“Is he dead?” It comes out gruff, slightly choked, but surprisingly even in the silence of the office. The doctor starts in his chair, clearly not expecting the question: tears, maybe, hysterics, anger, desperation. Not this quiet stoicism. (There are tears, there is ugly, frantic sobbing, it’s just on the inside. It’s better if no one can see. He pretends he is okay. This is a trait that runs in the family.)

 

Dr. Kelley shakes his head, quickly, brow furrowed. “No, not yet-” He pauses. That wasn’t quite what he’d meant to say. “He’s… he’s holding on, for now. I’m sorry, but I have to tell you that the outlook is not good. We’re doing what we can…” He falters. John stares at the magnet sculpture on the edge of the desk. “It doesn’t look like he’ll make it through the night. I’m very sorry.”

 

“Can I see him?” They’d kept Stiles away, in surgery, in Intensive Care, back where the hopeless lay clinging to the sands of life slipping out of their fingers. Back where the doctors hid their failures, the casualties of the never-ending war. He’d seen his boy, a glimpse, a bare moment to say ‘yes, that is my son’ (although at first he wasn’t sure, didn’t even know the face, it was so broken.) The peculiar pattern of moles and freckles, spotting over the swollen cheek, and his heart dropped, stopped beating, stopped breathing, except to say those five words, and he was pushed out and away and into the waiting room. To wait. 

 

That was at seven. It is after nine, now, two hours of his son’s life that he has missed. Not counting, not thinking about the rest, the hours hours hours where Stiles was alone and hurt and dying and ALONE. John’s cell phone is in his pocket, above his heart, the screen is cracked, the voicemail alert icon reminding him that he can’t _delete_ the last words his son said to him, but he can’t bring himself to save the message either, just hangs up and lets the notification beep again. He has listened to it six times- it tears his heart out but somehow, sick, backwards, it comforts him. 

 

Message received: four fourteen am. (He was in the shower at four fourteen am, when his dying son was alternating between pleading for help and apologizing. Then he was getting dressed, hustling into the car, and he was pulling out of the driveway without ever thinking about the phone still sitting on the nightstand. A couple hours later- a call was coming in on the radio- a problem out on the highway, out by those damned woods where there was always _something_ these days. And when he got there he thought- he thought ‘this problem is taken care of, the victim is in the ambulance, the suspect is in the patrol car, this taken care of.’ It was someone else’s problem, now.) He feels a stab of guilt for wishing anyone else were sitting here, because that would mean anyone else was lying in a hospital bed dying. The guilt doesn’t last. He _wishes._

 

The doctor is telling him why he can’t see his son while he is still breathing. John is listening; of course he is listening, letting the technical terms wash over him. He is a police officer- he is the Sherriff, of course he knows what this means, of course. The big words are meant to confuse people, to hide the severity, to make the injuries exotic and alien. John sees through them.

 

Blunt force trauma- he’s been hit, repeatedly, in the face and upper body. The size and shape and severity of the bruising indicates that he was kicked. He probably has a concussion. Frighteningly, this is low on the list of concerns.

 

A broken arm. 

 

A punctured and collapsed lung, although they’re not sure if the hole was made by the knife or by one of the broken ribs. It was possibly both. There is a tube through his chest to let the blood and liquid drain out of his injured lung. He could drown. He could be drowning in his bed right now, and John would be in here listening to this man. 

 

The stab wounds- oh, god. He was stabbed, in the chest, in the stomach, just below his ribs. He was slashed across the face. (Too close to one eye, maybe they can’t save it. They’re not trying too hard, not right now, just a bandage, just hope, not that there’s much of that.) His arms are torn up, because he clearly held them up to protect himself, he fought back. (He fought back, he fought. He is a fighter. He hasn’t given up yet.)

 

They’re worried about the stab wounds in the torso. His liver seems to have escaped, his gall bladder, his kidneys. They’re not sure about his spleen. These words suddenly sound comical, made-up. They mean nothing. (What is a spleen? What does a spleen even do? John would rip his own out bare-handed and give it to his son, if it would help. It wouldn’t.)

 

The doctor pauses, looks hesitant, his brows creeping closer together as he works out how to say the next part. What can he have to say? What can be harder to tell a father, harder to describe than the holes and the cuts and the bruises and the breaks? That his son is dying and has hours, maybe- these final hours full of pain, alone, suffering, as alone here as he was out in the forest, for all the tubes and wires sticking out of him. John wants to be with his son. What is this man trying to tell him?

 

“To your knowledge, Sherriff Stilinski, is your son currently in a relationship?”

 

(What does that- Don’t think about the implications, don’t.) “No.” Stiles has been, for the last year or two, increasingly secretive. There could be a secret girlfriend. Hell, there could be a whole secret life John has never been privy to. But Stiles always comes home again, always hugs him and tells him he loves him and makes him eat vegetables. He is a good boy. How many secrets would he keep from his father? 

 

“I… I’m sorry, I wouldn’t- there are additional bruises, I wish I could say- well. There are handprints. Around his wrists. They-” The doctor pauses, sighs. Beacon Hills has always been a safe place, (had been,) until the past couple years. Things like this just never used to happen. (The man has no experience breaking _this_ kind of news to people. Cancer sneaks in, a body attacking itself. Hearts fail, cars crash, people fall down. Dr. Kelley can tell a grieving family about these evils, these forces they can band together against. This is different. Someone DID this, deliberately, a human being did this to another human being and left him to die.)

 

“We’ve already taken DNA samples, I know you will want to find out who did this.” John closes his eyes, breathes, tries not to understand what the doctor is telling him. “There were also handprints- bruises- on his hips and thighs, consistent with- We found… evidence of sexual activity, we were able to get a clean semen sample, and we’ve already filed a report with the Sherriff’s Office, so.”

 

John’s head is buzzing, because yes, this is worse, when he thought it couldn’t be any worse, and he didn’t know his heart could hurt more than it already did but this was a day full of surprises. “You’re saying my son was raped.”

 

The doctor flinches, as if that wasn’t what he’d just said with about twenty times as many words. He is young, he is bright-eyed and optimistic about helping people, and he is terrified of saying the word ‘rape’ because it is so ugly, so painful. “There are clear hallmarks of sexual assault- the bruising is consistent with being held down, and there was penetration, the- rectal area is swollen, though it isn’t torn, it could be much worse-“

 

(No, it really couldn’t, if it could John doesn’t even want to _think_ about it. _His son._ )

 

“But yes, while we can’t determine whether it was- rape- unless your son establishes whether it was consensual or not, there was definitely recent sexual activity, with a man. The officers at the station are holding the man he was found with, until we can test him for a match.”

 

John had forgotten the other man, still unidentified, presumably sitting in a cell all these hours. He has no room left for that man, not yet, not while Stiles is still _here_ and needs him. He nods silently, past being shocked or angry or sad. 

 

“Can I see him?” The doctor pauses, looking apologetic. 

 

“He’s in a highly controlled environ-“

 

“You just told me he is dying. You told me why he is dying. Am I really going to make anything worse?”

 

The doctor pauses again, trying to rally some sort of argument. John doesn’t let him.

 

“He’s alone. He hates being alone, especially in hospitals. He has panic attacks. I-” There are tears on John’s face, although he doesn’t feel them.

 

“Please, I don’t want him to die alone.”

 

Dr. Kelley nods, once, short, and stands up. John follows him down the quiet hall, through the stagnant disinfectant reek, and through a swinging door. 

 

_Beep._

 

****

 

“Stiles! What did we say about hitting?” Stiles stops, hand still raised, and swings his eyes to his mother without moving his head. His cousin scampers off into the kitchen, bawling.

 

“Hitting is bad?”

 

“Yes, hitting is bad. Do you know why?” Stiles pushes out his bottom lip, looks like he might cry, but rallies enough to answer.

 

“Because hitting hurts, and only bullies hurt other people debrilitly?”

 

Alexa holds back a laugh and nods solemnly. “Deliberately, which means on purpose. We shouldn’t hurt other people, Stiles, not on purpose. No one wants to be a bully. You should be a good boy, and play nice.”

 

Stiles really does look like he might cry now- he can’t stand to be told he isn’t being a good boy.

 

“I’m sorry, mama, but, he hit me first!”

 

“Then you should have come and told a grown-up, Stiles. Your cousin isn’t allowed to hit either, and he will be punished. But now you have to be punished, too, because you did something you know you shouldn’t have.” A tear finally makes its way down his cheek, but he sniffles quietly and doesn’t give in. 

 

“Yes, mama.” He trudges over to the time-out corner, a spot he is well-acquainted with despite his sweet disposition. He just can’t seem to help himself, sometimes, and his impulsive actions are forever getting him in little troubles. Alexa sighs and pats John on the shoulder, moves into the kitchen to talk to her sister. John clears his throat, and Stiles looks back at him, over his shoulder.

 

“Your mom is right, Stiles, you shouldn’t be a bully. But sometimes it’s okay to fight back. If someone is hurting you, and you can’t come get one of us- if there’s no one who can help you, it’s okay to fight.”

 

“But you’ll always be there to help me, right daddy?”

 

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man I'm pretty awful to Stiles. Whoops. Also sorry about the long break- I am having real-life issue aplenty. I will finish this, though, if you stick with me. You want to know what happened, don't you?


	5. Quick! Show of hands!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I realize this is not the best day to ask a serious question, but I'm gonna do it anyway because THAT IS JUST HOW I ROLL

'Sup, ladies and... ok probably mostly ladies, but either way! Guess who's not dead? (Sorry to anyone who guessed 'Stiles,' as far as this story goes that could still go either way... Look the question was rhetorical, obviously I'm referring to myself and my extended disappearing act.)

So okay it's been a year and a half, and an extremely eventful two-part Season 3, since this fic has updated.

Oops.

I hit kind of a rough spot in life, actually _worse_ than the rough spot I was exorcising by writing such a dark fic in the first place, and THEN my computer BSOD'd. (For those of you too young and/or lucky to know, it basically committed laptop seppuku.) Which means I lost all of my unpublished written chapters, as well as the notes and chapter outlines for the rest of this fic.

Which sucks.

I ALSO lost about 150,000 words of a final draft for the DCBB. And the revision draft, rough, and all of my notes and basically everything forever and ever amen. Which, in my inestimable wisdom, I had somehow not backed up. Which sucks SO MUCH MORE AUGH.

Adding my first-world dilemma to my 99-non-bitch-related real life problems resulted in me basically rage-quitting writing for a while. But life, as it frequently does, stopped sucking so much, and I actually have the time and inclination to write again. And THIS fucking story has been sitting in the back of my head for MONTHS, harassing me about letting it out.

I know exactly where I was headed, narratively speaking, and I actually think I can spin it out to be inclusive of Season 3. (And I wanna get on it before there's any more canon to contend with, because for a second there it looked like the actual show was gonna beat me to my own plot point.)

SO! To the actual point: can I get a show of hands from anyone interested in this fic being completed? Because I'd like to either put a warning in the summary that it's incomplete/abandoned (because HOLY DUCKS do I ever hate getting invested and then SURPRISE THE AUTHOR HAS VANISHED FOREVER! ( _I'm looking at YOU, 'Chameleon'/Velvet Mace, and if you know what I'm talking about then you understand_ ))

Or

I'll pick up where I left off and we'll just ignore my mid-season hiatus. 

I already know what happens in this story, so it ain't no thing to me, and I don't wanna invest too much time and work into something no one cares about. (Has everyone jumped the Sterek ship & gone over to Derek/Chris Argent yet?) But if there's basically any interest in this story, I'll do my very best to get it back on track and on a regular update schedule.

So let me know! Should I start updating? Should I delete my sorrowful works from the internet at large? Should I change focus and make this a Coach Finstock epic? I'M OPEN TO SUGGESTION. Leave me a comment, or hit me up by email at slash_hack@lycos.com

In closing, I think my rambling-ass author's note is longer than any actual chapter... wow, I suck!

**Author's Note:**

> So. I'm planning on continuing this, but I'm pretty terrible at carrying out my plans, so: no promises. I would appreciate any feedback, because I almost never post chaptered stuff AS I am writing.
> 
> Also I've decided to split this up into separate stories, instead of chapters, because some of them stand alone, some can be skipped, and it'll keep the warnings a little lighter. So, if you want to get updates, you probably want to subscribe to the series rather than the story, so that you'll be alerted when I post the next parts as separate works.


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